Two Little Birds
by The Sincerities
Summary: It was their little secret. — Reds.


25 September 2011

two little birds  
>: <em>her voice of adieux<em>

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><p>r e d s<p>

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><p>.<p>

There's a perch on her window, a window belonging to one of three newly separated rooms of their household, in which she can pull herself onto if she's careful. It's a perch wide enough for two, wide enough for one, and it belongs to her and her only.

After a soothing bath, just before evening decides to dawn fully in place of day, she likes to slip past its frame to sit on the base of the sill as the dampness of her hair slowly fades. There is always a crisp feel on her toes while she sits barefoot and watching as the energy of Townsville slowly dies down whilst the stars begin to peek out from their veil of alternating blues and gold.

The beginning of the weekend calls for a night free of homework, and rather a night full of pampering for Bubbles and a night lined with popcorn and clichéd drama broadcastings for Buttercup. Even as the sounds scattered around town fill her, Blossom can still recognize the cute melody playing downstairs, followed by the heavy footsteps belonging to Bubbles as she mutters a word of gibberish while she runs for her cell phone. There then comes the voice of the Professor, who sounds as though he's bidding both the hurried Bubbles and unheard of Buttercup a fine goodnight.

"Goodnight, Blossom," says his voice from behind her door seconds after he gives a light knock. "Sweet dreams, honey."

She turns to look over her shoulder to see a smiling Professor with a mug of warm milk ( just as he always has before bed ), as well as a smile just as pure. She mirrors this smile, embracing the self-evident love hidden behind it.

"Goodnight, Professor. See you in the morning."

Her attention turns back to the outdoors before her, just after hearing her door click shut.

The crickets have begun to whistle and the streetlights are beginning to flicker awake. This is her signal to retreat fully into her room ( mind you, only for a second or two ). She steps over the desk planted in the corner, reaching for the old radio sitting beside the small lamp currently lighting her space. She turns one of two dials while holding onto the antenna as she focuses on the static pulsing through the speakers. She is soon back on her spot on the windowpane after finding her favorite station.

It's only a matter of time when he finally arrives, mindful to the townspeople residing in their homes, as well as the two sisters roaming _her _home. It's because of this that he arrives by foot, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his sweatshirt rather than by air with a train of sparkling crimson staining his path. Then there he stands, below her window, smirking handsomely at her without speaking a word. Instead, he simply waits for her consent, which she offers with a nod.

He's sitting beside her in a heartbeat, the streets and silence left unharmed.

"How's it going?" he says to her in a voice only audible to the two of them.

He's leaning on the frame as she glances at his cool posture, resisting the urge to shake her head, unimpressed.

"Fairly well, thank you. Have you guys found a place to settle in yet?"

"Yeah, I was actually able to find a decent place downtown. It's a little on the grimy side but who's to say that we're anything different?"

To this, she has to bite her lip to prevent the hearty laugh she wishes to let out. He only smirks.

"Has the mental rehab gotten to you yet?" She hugs her shoulders, breathing in the freshness of the night. "There hasn't been a case with any one of you for a while now."

"Don't you think I'd have wiped the floor with you by now if it had?"

Both expressions are polar opposites as he finishes his remark. One is flat, the other completely smug. Both, however, stretch into alert, for there comes a reign of laughter from outside her door, a rough and outspoken laughter that can only belong to Buttercup. This theory is proven guilty when in second comes a crude word here and there, followed by another session of chuckles.

Both redheads release the breaths they had been holding. He lets out a small chuckle of his own before turning to the eyes of rosette watching him.

"It's amazing how loud she can be. Reminds me of Butch when he's watching those stupid cop shows he likes so much. He can always get a laugh out from watching a load of idiots get arrested for whatever sorry excuse."

"Yeah, that's Buttercup for you. The Professor sleeps right through it somehow, and Bubbles doesn't mind it much."

"It's just you who begins to bitch then, isn't it?" He grins widely in response to his urge to let out a laugh and surprisingly manages to hold it at his throat.

"_I'll have you know that_—."

"Nah, it's cool. I don't blame you. I nearly hang Butch by the neck when he does it. I mean, it's a complete pain having to listen to the guy sound practically insane, and on top of that, how am I supposed to do the homework I actually bother to do?"

This time, she tips her head forward with a snigger as she attempts to lift herself back into her room in defeat. To her surprise, the wind is knocked to her stomach when she feels a firm hold pull her into soft, maroon fabrics. Thankfully, she manages to let out only a gasp. The grip on her waist tightens, molding her against the sculpted body wielding the sweatshirt she's grasping onto for support.

"Where do you think you're going, _Red_?" whispers his rasped voice into her ear. "Don't think I don't know you were about to kick me out. You'd really dare do that?"

"Yes," she says back as she tries not to fall captive to the surprisingly attractive scent of cologne.

"I don't see why. You _enjoy _talking to me."

She can hear the outline of yet another of his smirks.

"I think it's the other way around. You're the one who first began coming here."

The grip releases and he allows her to straighten back her posture.

"Yeah," he pauses, "maybe I did and maybe I do. At least I admit it."

She pays no mind to this and instead levels herself back onto the hardware panels of her bedroom flooring. Slender fingers comb through the chilled locks of hair draping her shoulder, tidying their companions. She leaves him in the midst of a commercial playing in the background, turning her back to the window while picking up the brush on her desk.

A moment of thought brings her to a halt.

"I know that I've asked before," she begins. "But don't your brothers get suspicious?"

She can feel him watch as she runs soft bristles into her untangled hair.

"Nah," he finally says. "I always bring home some grub so they couldn't care less what I'm out doing for an hour so long as there's food on the table."

She turns back to him, eyes fixed as she combs through the tips.

"That's pretty clever of you."

He lets out a chuckle and nods.

"Damn right. Don't your sisters get suspicious?"

They both glance towards the door before she responds.

"I'm usually in my room so it's not like there's anything to suspect. Buttercup always has the television as loud as it goes and Bubbles usually has her earphones on while she's on her laptop. They don't generally say much, and we're all in the habit of knocking before entering, so . . ."

When she looks up from the floor she has been pacing on and glaring into, she meets a firm stare accompanied by a mild grin. This causes her to stop in her tracks to stare back.

"What?"

He shakes his head, sighing and stretching himself out before going back to his stare.

"Look's like we've both got this under control then," he says, looking about ready to jump back onto the grass sitting below him. "You cold?"

She's putting her brush back onto its spot on her desk when he says this, and thus she flinches away from it and turns.

"No, why?"

Ultimately, this isn't quick enough to meet up to the sweatshirt now being held out at her by an arm extending past her window frame. She opens her mouth in protest and confusion, even, but it's urged at her with a shake. Her lips purse and she turns fully.

"What do you want me to do with that?" she questions, now scanning his black shirt that lay beneath the article.

He gives her a look.

"What else are you supposed to do with a sweater? _Wear it_, obviously."

"But—."

It's flicked at her before she can finish.

In her hands now lies a warm sweatshirt, clearly two to three sizes bigger than she'd normally fit into. She looks up at him, seeing that he looks as though he actually expects her to pull the large, scented-with-cologne fabric over her head—which, quite frankly, she does. She does and debates with herself about whether she'll be caught and interrogated or if he'll be questioned about his sweater-less torso when he arrives back home. She even wonders _what _in the right mind has gotten into her.

When she successfully pulls her hair out from within, she blinks back into crimson. He seems to survey the image in front of him before smiling approvingly and signaling her back towards the perch he's still sitting upon.

"Huh. You actually pull it off." He watches as she stops in front of him, causing him to sit up straighter. "You look pretty cute when you're self-conscious."

This causes her eyes to widen and her mouth to open.

"C'mere."

In the midst of finding a reply, he catches her chin with a swift motion of his hand and pulls her in towards him. His lips capture the shape of her own, puckering against them smoothly before pulling back just enough to stare at her dumbfounded expression up close.

Still leveling her by the chin, he smirks.

"It's about time for me to get going," he says while boring his eyes into hers and pressing their foreheads together, teasingly. "Even if that was a cheap first shot, you'll have to promise me that there'll be more of those in the future."

She's at too much of a loss for words to reply, but she follows him when he tilts towards her once more. For a second time their lips meet the curves of the opposing before pulling back, this time slower than the first.

"Take care of that sweatshirt, eh?" He releases the hold he has on her. "It's one of my favorites."

He jumps from his spot on the sill before she can react fast enough, though she still manages to lean her head out the window to see his figure shadowed under the streetlights. He has a hand in his jean pocket while the other faces her with a mild wave. She can still make out the smirk he always directs at her, and to this, she smiles.

"Goodnight, Bloss," he says well enough for only her to hear. "Sweet dreams."

There's a puff of red, followed by a fading streamline as he takes off.

She steps back after she can no longer make out his path, closing the two window panels along with her with a soft tug. Her radio is still emitting the notes of the harmony playing in the background, barely in unison with the tick from the clock hanging over her bed.

She tiptoes towards her door, opening it cautiously to stick her head out. The hall is lit from the pictures flickering below on the first floor, as well as the faint light from under Bubbles' door. She sneaks out to the rail, barely glancing down to see Buttercup chewing intently on a mouthful of popcorn. This is enough for her to go back into her room, door back in its place over the doorway.

Her back leans against the cool wood, and she grips onto the collar of the sweatshirt, pulling it up to her nose. She inhales the sweet aroma, admiring the taste he has compared to those back at school. With a few steps, she's back in front of the window, glancing out the glass to watch the stillness of town.

A hand brushes against the edge of the sill as she turns the dial of her radio, silencing it when she pulls the chain of her lamp. She takes one final glance at her favorite spot on her windowsill, subconsciously bringing a hand to her lips.

She smiles, feeling a satisfied flush of pink trace over her cheeks.

Six long and winding blocks down, a crooked smile fits the charmed beholder who steadily makes his way into the streets downtown.

It's not until the following day that the cycle will repeat, once more—but, of course, nobody but them knows this. It's all on a single windowsill wide enough for two, wide enough for one, that it all happens, and it belongs to them and them only.

"Goodnight, Brick," says a whisper from the sweet figure by the name of Blossom as she steps away from this sill—and nonetheless, as he's now striding down streets of bustling vehicles, Brick still hears her.

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><p><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: Credit for _The Powerpuff Girls_ belongs to Craig McCracken.


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